


like real people do

by littlesnowpea



Series: happily ever after (not the other way around) [3]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Kidnapping, Look I Know, M/M, Post-Prison, Rapunzel Elements, the boys are golden the emotional abuse is between patrick and his mom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-25 01:50:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17112179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlesnowpea/pseuds/littlesnowpea
Summary: “Don’t trust anyone,” Patrick recited dutifully. It was the same thing his mother said every time she sent him out the door. Patrick hated it, but he wasn’t exactly going to argue with her. It had taken months of cajoling and crying and sucking up to her ridiculous rules to be allowed to go to the store for an hour in the evening once a week, the first time he’d ever been allowed off the farm for anything. Sure, he had to turn eighteen and threaten to run away, but he got his hour.





	like real people do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunflashes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflashes/gifts).



> yanno, i just can't let these fairy tale adaptations die. consider this a present for whatever winter holiday you celebrate, and if you don't, an early/late birthday gift, whichever is applicable. 
> 
> this is a rapunzel story, so the emotional abuse is between patrick and his mother, not the boys. also, pete is a felon in this, and there is some discussion of felony activities. nothing violent, though. 
> 
> happy whatever and i hope you like this! 
> 
> title from "like real people do" by hozier. go listen to that song if for some reason you never have (and even if you have. it's a good song, okay)

“Back by six.”

Patrick grimaced and tried uselessly to tug his arm free of his mother’s pinched grip. Realizing she wasn’t letting him go without an acquiescence, he let his shoulders sag.

“Six,” he repeated. “Okay.”

“Good boy,” his mother said, letting his arm go to smooth down his collar. “I love you. Do I get a kiss?”

“Always, Mama,” Patrick said, and kissed her cheek. 

“Six,” she reminded him, and he nodded. Satisfied, she gave him a little push towards the door. “Don’t forget what I said.”

“Don’t trust anyone,” Patrick recited dutifully. It was the same thing his mother said every time she sent him out the door. Patrick hated it, but he wasn’t exactly going to argue with her. It had taken months of cajoling and crying and sucking up to her ridiculous rules to be allowed to go to the store for an hour in the evening once a week, the first time he’d ever been allowed off the farm for anything. Sure, he had to turn eighteen and threaten to run away, but he got his hour. 

Maybe one day, he might actually have the courage to run away. Not forever, he knew he couldn’t survive for long. He was too soft. Too fragile. His mom always said so, always reminded him about the three different inhalers he needed just for allergy season. How could he expect to be normal without her help?

But maybe for, like, a day he could get off the farm for a while. Maybe he could have a life that was beyond saying hello to the farm hands when he walked back and forth to the well under his mother’s direct supervision (in case he fell in. He couldn’t swim.) Maybe he could do something besides read the same five books and play the piano when his mom said it was okay or hold the yarn for her while she knitted for hours on end. 

Just to see what it was like. 

The snow wasn’t too heavy for the end of December and it wasn’t too cold, so the walk was nice. Granted, the walk would be nice in a hurricane, but that wasn’t the point. Patrick’s breath was visible in the glow of the streetlamps that also caught the tinsel wound around the poles. 

It was Christmas--well, almost--and Patrick already knew what he wanted. His mother got him one thing--one. He couldn’t be greedy and ask for anything else. He got one. But he knew what he wanted, for real this time. A guitar was shut down and that was the only other thing he’d like, so it had to be this. 

Patrick grinned as he passed another streetlamp pole, this one bearing a large, colorful sign advertising the Christmas fair in Chicago. He’d never been--well, that was obvious--and right then, he wanted to go more than anything in the world. He pictured it exactly like the ones he saw in the old black and white movies that would play constantly on the TV in the living room. He pictured laughter and joy and freedom and everything Patrick never got staying cooped up in the drafty old farmhouse. 

“Good evening, Patrick,” the grocery store owner said as Patrick stepped in, his bag on his shoulder. “Nice to see you again.”

“Nice to see you, too, Travie,” Patrick said, grinning. “I almost didn’t get to come. Too cold.”

“That mother of yours,” Travie said, eyes a little too knowing for Patrick’s taste as they landed on him. “She worries an awful lot.”

“She’s my mom,” Patrick shrugged. “It’s in her job description.”

“I guess,” Travie said. He still looked concerned, so Patrick rushed to change the subject, brandishing his list like it was a shield between him and uncomfortable questions about his mother’s behavior. So she was a little odd and a little overprotective, so what? She was his mom, she loved him, that was all. After all, who wouldn’t be a little odd and overprotective if their son was the sole survivor of a car accident that killed their husband and two other children?

Patrick didn’t remember the car accident, he was only two, but it explained so much. Besides, it wasn’t like she was hurting him or anything. He had food and a bed and everything he needed, his mom was just a little weird. 

That was his ongoing explanation, anyway. 

“The usual,” Patrick said as Travie glanced over the list. It wasn’t really necessary, Patrick’s mom ordered the same five things every week, but he did it every time anyway, like there was a code he was trying to decipher among Patrick’s cramped writing. 

Patrick caught sight of a new flyer on the wall over Travie’s left shoulder and went up on tiptoe to squint at it. He really needed to remember to bring his glasses. Travie glanced up before following Patrick’s line of sight and grinning, crossing to the flyer and taking it down in order to let Patrick see it better. 

“It’s Saturday,” Travie said, as if Patrick didn’t have that date memorized. Saturday, December 18th, 6PM to midnight. Patrick didn’t even have to stay the whole time or anything, he’d be content with one hour! And his mom didn’t even have to drive him because he knew the bus from the town square went straight to the Loop downtown. He may have deciphered it with a stolen bus line booklet, reading it by the light of the moon in the middle of the night, to avoid detection, but the point was he knew it.

“You gonna go?” Travie asked. “I’d be happy to give you a ride.”

“Are you going?” Patrick blurted out. Travie nodded. “Yeah, yes I want to go. Um, are you sure? I can’t pay you or anything.”

“You don’t need to pay me, Patrick,” Travie said, almost fondly if Patrick was paying attention to anything beyond the excited pounding of his heart. A ride! Really! Even better, and Patrick’s mom _knew_ Travie! If Patrick stretched the truth and said he was staying with Travie the whole entire time, maybe, just maybe, he would get his Christmas wish this year. 

“I--” Patrick said, breaking into a grin. “Yeah! Please. I’ll--I’ll ask my mom tonight!”

“You are eighteen, Patrick,” Travie said gently. “You can ask if it makes you more comfortable, but she can’t tell you no. Not really. You’re an adult now.”

“She just worries,” Patrick said hesitantly, and Travie sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Patrick,” he said. “Tell you what, I’m leaving here at 5:30 on Saturday. Meet me here by then, and you’ve got yourself a ride there and back. If you want to go, go. You deserve to have fun. It’s not your job to make your mom comfortable.”

_It’s not my job to make Mama comfortable._

It was somewhat of a novel thought, a thought that kind of distracted Patrick throughout the usual transaction. He didn’t have to always say yes? That seemed absurd and yet he couldn’t forget how hard it was to get his one hour a week out of the house, how frustrated he was, how unfair it seemed. Travie kind of made sense--what happened to his dad and his brothers wasn’t his fault. Why did he always have to do what made his mom happy?

He mumbled through a thank-you before hauling the bag over his shoulder and turning back towards the farmhouse, lost in brand new thoughts.

\-----

“Okay,” Patrick said to himself, standing on the step outside his front door. “Okay, you can do this. Just be calm and reasonable and confident. Show her you can handle yourself for one evening. It’s fine.”

He sucked in a deep breath of too-cold air, coughing at the sensation a little, shifting the weight of the bag. He was nervous--of course he was, there was no way he couldn’t be nervous. Asking for something so wildly outside the rules? Anyone would be nervous. But this was _important_ , he _had_ to do it. He had to make her see. He was confident and independent and she _didn’t_ need to worry about him so much.

“Okay,” he said again, shivering a little. “Okay. Hi Mama. Oh, town was fine, nothing exciting. Oh, I was talking to Travie and he showed me this and offered to drive me. I think I really want to go, just for a couple hours. I’ll stay with him the whole time and come right home. For my Christmas present, please?”

“Who on Earth are you muttering to out here?” his mom said, swinging open the door and making him jump. “Did you bring a friend home? Are you going insane? Are you feeling alright, sweetie?”

“No,” Patrick said, before stumbling to correct himself. “I mean, yes, I feel fine, I’m okay. I got the groceries.”

“There’s my good boy,” his mom said, pulling him into the house and taking the bag from him. “You got everything on the list?”

“Always, Mama,” Patrick said before swallowing, his throat suddenly dry. “Um, Mama? Can I talk to you?”

His mother was looking through the bag but tossed out a vague affirming noise which Patrick took to mean _begin speaking now_ , so he sucked in a deep breath and clutched the flyer like a lifeline.

“Okay,” he said. “I know what I want for Christmas this year. I was talking to Travie--”

“That man is a meddler,” his mom huffed, and Patrick felt his stomach sink a little. He steeled himself and forced himself to continue on. 

“And he showed me this,” Patrick said, waving the flyer uselessly. His mom still wasn’t looking at him, though, so he took another deep breath, trying to calm his pounding heart. “And he offered to drive me and everything! And I think I really want to go, it seems so magical like in the movies. And I would stay right with Travie, I wouldn’t wander away or anything, and it would only be a couple of hours--”

“What are you babbling about, Patrick?” his mom said, finally looking at him and frowning. “You’re just meandering on and I can’t follow what you’re saying. What do you want to tell me?”

Patrick gripped the flyer tightly. 

“I want to go to the Christmas fair in Chicago,” he blurted out, and his mom took a step back, hand over her heart like Patrick had hit her. Horror swept over Patrick as his mom’s eyes filled with tears and he shook his head frantically, but it was too late. 

“You want to leave me!” his mom cried, and Patrick shook his head harder. “I knew this would happen, I knew you’d want to leave one day. But so close to Christmas, Patrick? You’d leave your mother all alone?”

“No, Mama,” Patrick said desperately. “No, I’m not leaving! I just...for a few hours! That’s all!”

“A few hours?” his mother said, choking on more tears. “In the city? Do you want to die in a horrible car crash? Or get mugged? Or take drugs? Do I not love you enough, is that it?”

“Mama, please,” Patrick said, but he knew it was useless, he knew nothing he said would help unless he took back his request. She was already fired up, she would just cry endlessly and Patrick would get nowhere. Patrick fought tears and sighed, trying not to scream in frustration. “Okay. I won’t go. I’m sorry, Mama.”

His mom sniffed past tears and pulled Patrick into a hug, kissing him on the cheek, remnants of her tears dripping onto his shoulder. Patrick patted her on the back, trying his best to swallow past his resentment--she was just overprotective. One day, it would get better. Sure, Patrick wished one day was now so he could go do something in the actual real world, but it wasn’t gonna happen. Maybe next Christmas. Or when he was thirty. 

Eventually, his mother let him go, wiping her eyes with an almost satisfied grin. Patrick somehow managed not to sigh, instead allowing her to kiss both cheeks. 

“Thank you, sweetheart,” his mom said, before taking the flyer from his hands and ripping it apart, ignoring how Patrick winced. “No more of these silly, dangerous ideas, okay? You can’t go to Chicago all by yourself, you’ll die.”

“Okay, Mama,” Patrick said dully, and his mom pushed his bangs away. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Patrick,” his mom said. “My good boy.”

Patrick trudged to his bedroom, fighting frustrated tears of his own as he shut the door behind him. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t _fair_. Why did Patrick always have to make his mom happy, but she didn’t care if Patrick was? It wasn’t like going to a Christmas fair once was going to turn him into a drug addict or give him a tattoo or whatever. It was a Christmas fair, and Patrick wanted to go more than anything and he couldn’t because his mom was a _crazy person._

Travie’s words came back to haunt him. 

_It’s not your job to make your mom comfortable._

Patrick felt the heavy weight of determination settle on his shoulders as he considered. It really wasn’t his job. _And_ he was eighteen, and he could do what he wanted. And his mom wasn’t about to kick him out for disobeying--as if she would ever let her claws out of Patrick--so what was Patrick waiting for? 

He swallowed, clenching his fists together. 

Fine. His mom wanted to cling to him and refuse to let him do anything? Fine. He’d do it anyway. 

Patrick couldn’t wait for Saturday.

\-----

Patrick somehow, somehow managed to get out of his bedroom window and all the way into town seemingly without breathing. He was _hyperaware_ , sure that his mom was going to come barrelling down the road to drag him back by his hair, but with every minute that passed, it seemed like his stupid excuse about being tired passed his mom’s suspicion. 

It was either a Christmas miracle or something very bad was going to happen, but either way, as long as Patrick got to the fair, he didn’t care. It was _all_ he wanted, he didn’t want anything else.

“Hey, Patrick,” Travie said as Patrick made it to the door, breathing a little hard from rushing. He cast another nervous glance over his shoulder--nothing. He exhaled. He turned back to Travie just as he was locking the door to the store and swallowed. 

“Ready?” Travie asked, and Patrick nodded quickly. “I'm proud of you.”

“Thank you,” Patrick said quietly. “I just--I really want to go to this.”

“You don't have to justify yourself to me,” Travie said, sounding almost amused as he gestured towards his truck. “You're allowed to want things. You know that, right?”

“Um,” Patrick said, not sure how to answer that. Travie grinned at him anyway and unlocked the truck, watching Patrick hop in. He shut the door and Patrick watched him walk around to the driver's side. 

“Oh my God,” Patrick said faintly. “Oh my God, what are you doing, Mom will be so upset, what's wrong with you?”

He was starting to panic breathe so he took a deep breath, giving Travie a sincere, if watery smile. It was fine. This was fine, he could do this, he could. He just had to not think about his mother finding his bedroom empty and panicking and--

“Let's go,” Travie said and Patrick exhaled slowly. 

The ride into Chicago was quiet on Patrick's end, his nerves still eating away at his stomach. Travie either didn't notice or was ignoring it for Patrick's sake, because he casually talked the entire time, about what his sister was doing in Toledo and how much the lady from the sticks tried to rip him off. His chatter carried Patrick the entire way until they hit the city and his breath caught.

“Nice, right?” Travie asked, correctly interpreting Patrick's stunned silence. “You ever been?”

“Here?” Patrick asked, voice a little hoarse from disuse. “No. No, I haven't.”

If Patrick had ever been to Chicago, he would never come back. As it was, all the doubts and fears and insecurities about doing exactly what his mother told him not to all faded away, the space in Patrick's brain they occupied filled instead with the bright lights and cheerful decorations and sheer wonder that was downtown Chicago. Patrick was slightly worried he wouldn't come back with Travie. The city was all but calling his name, and suddenly  
he could hardly wait to get out of the car and take off to explore everything all at once. 

“Hey,” Travie said, clearly seeing Patrick's unbearable urge. “I know you don't have a phone. Just meet me back here at eleven, okay? I won't leave without you, but try not to make me panic.”

“Okay,” Patrick said. Travie shot him a grin.

“Go have fun,” he said, and that was all the invitation Patrick needed. 

It was just as cold in the city as it had been at home, maybe even colder. Patrick didn't know why he expected any different. He walked down the street, trying to look at everything all at once. The buildings were lit up in Christmas colors high above him, and fat flakes of snow drifted down, blanketing the streets as people walked. In the street were vendors selling hot chocolate and popcorn and treats that made Patrick's mouth water as he walked past.

It was unreal. He wondered: was this what freedom felt like? Was this what everyone who was allowed to leave the house whenever they wanted felt like? Patrick could hardly believe it. It felt so bizarre. 

“Hey,” someone called, and Patrick turned to look. It was a girl, dressed like an elf, hair dyed blue and grinning. “You want some popcorn? Free samples.”

Patrick grinned back, he couldn't help it. Her smile was kind of infectious, so Patrick stepped closer. 

“Popcorn?” he asked. “Uh. Sure.”

The girl held out a paper cone filled with popcorn and Patrick hesitantly took it. She bounced on her feet for a moment before speaking. 

“First time to Chicago?” she asked, and Patrick blinked in surprise but nodded, confused. “I can tell. It's all over your face. You look like the world's cutest tourist.”

“Um, thanks?” Patrick said slowly. The girl grinned harder. 

“I'm Meagan,” she introduced, holding out her hand. Patrick cautiously shook it.

“Patrick,” he offered. “Do I really look like a tourist?”

“Only a little,” Meagan reassured him, but Patrick had a feeling she was lying. “Where are you from?”

“Wilmette,” Patrick all but whispered, refraining from glancing around with immense effort. His mom wasn't here. He could deal with her wrath when he got home. He needed to _relax._

“Oh cool!” Meagan said enthusiastically. “That's where my co-worker is from….Pete! PETE!”

“Oh my God, shut up, I'm right here,” said co-worker grumbled, stepping out of the wagon the popcorn shop was in. He was dressed like a elf, too, although it was far from charming. The stubble on his face and grumpy expression sort of ruined the look, as did the tattoos on his neck that Patrick could just see. “What are you shouting about?”

“This is Patrick,” Meagan said. “He's from Wilmette, too.”

“Cool,” Pete said, in a tone that suggested the exact opposite. “So you called me because…”

“Because you need to be sociable,” Meagan scolded. “That’s what we get paid for. And your tattoos are showing.”

“Do I really have to point out that _you_ have _blue hair?”_ Pete said back, tone snarky and passive aggressive. “Does the boss care that I have tattoos? I feel like he has bigger things to worry about.”

“Stop putting yourself down,” Meagan said, then turned back to Patrick, who was watching the whole interaction uncertainly. “Anyway. That’s Pete. He’s a grump but he’s got a good heart--a Hallmark movie waiting to happen.”

“Oh,” Patrick said, instead of asking what a Hallmark movie was. That was probably common knowledge among the regular people who weren’t going to be chained in their room for like, a year. He swallowed. “Um, I’ll see you around?”

He instantly hated himself to phrasing it like a question, but Meagan just beamed and nodded. Patrick made himself walk away after that--they probably didn’t want him hanging around and bothering them. Plus, there was more to see. There was so much more to see. 

\----

Patrick didn’t want to leave. He knew he had to--he had a half hour until he met Travie, until his magical night was broken kind of like Cinderella--but he really wanted to stay. He hadn’t smiled this much practically ever, and if he was weird, nobody seemed to care. His boots were wet from the snow, making his feet cold, and he was freezing thanks to the wind blowing by, but he kind of ached thinking of leaving. 

He knew Chicago probably wasn’t always this magical but for right now, it was. For right now, it was _everything,_ and Patrick was scared to go home. 

He sighed, scuffing his boot against the icy curb, and glanced around. The crowd had died down, vendors packing up, and Patrick figured he should probably find his way back to Travie’s truck--if he could remember where on Earth Travie had parked. He glanced right and then left, hovering uncertainly before choosing left. It felt right. 

Rounding the corner he stopped dead, heart sinking in horror. 

Cops. Three cops. Patrick panicked a little, looking around for somewhere to hide. The cops weren’t looking at him at all, but Patrick’s brain just kept screaming that his mom had sent them, that they were gonna arrest him and take him home and Patrick was never going to see the light of day again. 

After a moment of frantic panicking, words registered over the dull roar in Patrick’s ears and he furrowed his brow, concentrating. The lights on the cop cars were bright but he squinted past them to pay attention. 

“I think we better frisk him, boys,” one cop said, taunt unmistakable. “Can’t trust people like him.”

“I told you, I’m working.”

Patrick blinked in surprise as he registered Pete’s voice--Pete was his name, right, from the popcorn place? Why was he surrounded by cops? Pete didn’t strike Patrick as the type to do anything bad. 

“Working?” another cop scoffed. “Who would hire you? You have one job and it’s being a professional felon. We’re keeping your cell warm at West Side, you know.”

“I’m on probation,” Pete said. “I’m working. I’m doing everything I’m supposed to. Isn’t that what you want?”

“You’re awfully mouthy,” a cop said. “Do you want a place to sleep tonight? Just to remind you of who you are?”

“I swear I’m working, officer,” Pete said, in what sounded like the politest voice possible. “You can ask my boss.”

“Or I could not,” a cop said. “Let’s take a ride. You’re a suspicious character.”

Patrick scowled--this was his first interaction with a cop, but they weren’t at all what he was told they were. The cops in the TV shows he watched were friendly and noble, not bullies. He took a shaky breath--he really didn’t know what had gotten into him, but he was gonna interrupt. He never interrupted, his mother hated it, and he was _terrified_ to speak to cops for the first time, especially cops this mean, but they were being _so_ unfair to Pete. It was cruel.

“Pete?” he asked, hoping his voice didn’t sound as shaky as his ears said it was. “I was looking for you.”

All three cops plus Pete turned to look at him with varying expression of surprise on their faces. Patrick’s hands were shaking but he swallowed and took a half step forward. 

“You know this?” a cop asked, gesturing at Pete, who was staring at Patrick in what looked like pure amazement and relief. 

“What did he do to you?” another cop asked. “You can talk to us, we can help.”

“What?” Patrick asked, before shaking his head quickly. “What, no. He didn’t do anything. He’s supposed to walk me to my car. It’s my first time in the city and I’d be lost if he didn’t.”

It was almost all lies, lies Patrick couldn’t quite believe were falling from his lips. His mother was _screeching_ at him in his head, going on about all the rules and lessons Patrick was breaking right now, but it didn’t matter. Patrick would deal with all of that later. He couldn’t walk away and leave Pete to these police officers who seemed like they didn’t care about the law. 

The officers were looking at each other with what appeared to be uncertainty. Maybe Patrick was more convincing than he thought, because, after a moment, they stepped back and allowed Pete to stand up from the curb. They roughly turned him around, unlocking the handcuffs and shoving him away. 

“Go on,” one said, voice nasty. “But if you do anything to this nice boy, you’re going away for a long time. I’d love to lock you up forever. Less trash on the streets.”

Pete seemed to be working hard to ignore them, walking towards Patrick with an expressionless face, head held high. He stopped in front of Patrick, and the officers, evidently realizing Patrick meant it, broke apart, leaving Pete and Patrick standing in the middle of the sidewalk as snow began falling. 

“Why’d you do that?” Pete asked roughly before wincing and shaking his head. “I mean--sorry, I mean thank you. I’m not really used to--that. So thanks.”

Patrick shrugged. 

“They weren’t fair,” he said, then halfway grinned. “Plus, I kind of am lost. A little.”

Pete half grinned back. 

“I can help with that,” he offered. “Where’d you park?”

“Um,” Patrick said, trying to remember the sign on the parking garage. “South Loop Self Park.”

“Oh, that’s not too far,” Pete said, shrugging one shoulder. “That way. Come on. I’ll walk you.”

Patrick fell into step beside Pete, shoving his cold hands in his pockets and shivering a little. Pete glanced at him and Patrick tried his best to look upbeat despite knowing he was returning into what was most certainly a nightmare. He dreaded it. 

“Was it really your first time to Chicago?” Pete asked, and Patrick nodded. 

“First time this far from Wilmette,” he confessed. “Or, really, outside of Wilmette at all. My mom, she’s kind of overprotective.”

“How old are you?” Pete frowned. 

“Eighteen,” Patrick said, before quickly rushing to add: “Almost nineteen, really. In April.”

“That’s not almost, but I’ll allow it,” Pete said. “You’ve really never left Wilmette before?”

Patrick shook his head.

“My mom doesn’t even know I’m here,” he confessed. “She didn’t want me to go. She’s gonna flip.”

“But you’re eighteen,” Pete frowned. Patrick shrugged helplessly.

“My mom’s weird,” he said. “She’s convinced the whole world is gonna kill me.”

“Okay,” Pete said slowly. “She’d hate me, then.”

“Why?” Patrick asked. Pete gave him an incredulous look. 

“Why?” he repeated. “You heard all that, right? I’m a felon. I can’t go anywhere without cops harassing me.”

“I don’t care that you’re a felon,” Patrick shrugged. “To be honest, you’re kind of the first one I’ve met, but you’re nice. You’re walking me to my car.”

“I could be walking you to kidnap you,” Pete said, and Patrick tried not to flinch. He wasn’t very successful, not if Pete’s sardonic laugh said anything. “Kidding. I’m a nonviolent offender.”

“Nonviolent?” Patrick asked. 

“Means I wasn’t violent,” Pete said. Patrick knew what nonviolent meant, but Pete clearly didn’t want to elaborate so Patrick let it drop. 

“You’re actually, like, one of the only people outside my house I’ve had a conversation with,” he admitted. “I don’t get out much.”

“But you’re eighteen,” Pete repeated, and Patrick shrugged halfheartedly. 

“Weird mom,” he reminded Pete. “I probably won’t see daylight again for months. But it was worth it.”

“Months?” Pete demanded, and it was Patrick’s turn to be evasive. Nobody understood his mom, she was just odd and overprotective and people misinterpreted her behavior, that was all. 

“Joking,” he said weakly. Pete didn’t look like he bought it but he stopped outside the parking garage anyway, looking at Patrick critically. 

“Well,” he said. “If you aren’t locked up for months and ever come back down to the city, you can always stop in. At Paramore Popcorn, I mean. My job.”

Pete trailed off awkwardly but Patrick beamed at him anyway. Someone (besides Travie) wanted to talk to him again? Patrick didn’t even care if Pete was just being polite--a whole human being offered to see him again! Patrick was thrilled.

“I’ll be back,” he said as soon as it became apparent Pete was not going to finish. “Don’t worry, I’ll definitely be back. I really love Chicago.”

Pete grinned at him. 

“It was nice to meet you, Patrick,” Pete said. Patrick grinned back.

“Nice to meet you too, Pete,” he said. “I’ll see you next time.”

“See you,” Pete said, and Patrick waved.

\----

Patrick crawled back into his still-open window as silently as possible. The pillows on his bed that he’d shoved under his covers to make it look like he was sleeping were still there, and the house was silent around him. The lack of light from under the door signified that his mother had gone to bed, and if his mother had gone to bed that meant--

Patrick listened as hard as he could but he didn’t hear a sound, no footsteps towards his room. Could it be--could Patrick actually have gotten away with this? 

He quietly tugged the covers back, slipping into bed after changing into pajamas, closing his eyes and exhaling once there was still no sign that his mother had heard. He couldn’t stop grinning, remembering riding with Travie and the fair and walking with Pete and being _outside_ , and _God_ how it was worth it. He’d do it again, a hundred times--for one night, he was normal. For one night, everything was okay.

Morning came quickly, like Patrick blinked and the sun had risen. He hauled himself out of bed, changing quickly and making his way to the kitchen. 

“Good morning,” he said quietly to his mother, who grinned almost fondly at him. 

“Good morning,” she said. “Do you feel better?”

“Much,” Patrick said, unable to keep himself from grinning. “How did you sleep?”

“Oh, very well,” his mom said. “Go get eggs, please, Patrick. I’m too tired to go outside.”

That made no sense but Patrick didn’t even care. He was all but floating on cloud nine. He’d gotten away with it. For the first time in his entire life, he’d broken the rules and gotten away with it. It was incredible. 

Maybe his mom was right, maybe the outside world was corrupting, because all he could think about was doing it again, and soon. 

“Hi,” Patrick said, beaming. “My mom wants eggs.”

Joe, one of the farmhands, the only one to really talk to Patrick, glanced up.

“Do her legs work?” Joe said, and Patrick hid a grin in his hand. “What are you so smiley about?”

“Nothing,” Patrick said cheerfully, and Joe snorted. “What?”

“Nothing,” Joe mimicked. “Could this have anything at all to do with your little trip last night?”

“Joe!” Patrick hissed, glancing behind him frantically. “Shh! You can’t tell, okay, my mom didn’t find out. Please. Please don’t tell.”

“Relax, Patrick,” Joe said gently. “I would never rat you out. It’s about time you got some real independence. How was it?”

Patrick flushed and grinned again. He really did feel like he was floating just thinking about his evening, but he couldn’t help it. It was just the best time of his life.

“Amazing,” he whispered. “Oh my God, amazing, Joe. I talked to people and I met some friends maybe and I mouthed off to cops, it was so much fun.”

“You’re a regular rebel,” Joe said. 

“I want to go again,” Patrick said honestly, voice cracking. “I didn’t want to ever come back. I want to go again, as many times as I can.”

“That good, huh?” Joe asked, and Patrick bit back frustrated tears and nodded. “Well, maybe you’re in luck. I’m not supposed to tell you, so don’t go blabbing that you know, but your mom is going on a trip in two days. For two weeks.”

“Where?” Patrick asked instantly, frowning. “Mom never goes anywhere.”

“I know,” Joe said. “That’s why it’s so surprising. She told my dad this morning. Something urgent came up somewhere, that’s all I got. Dad’s gonna be in charge of you.”

“Really?” Patrick whispered, eyes wide. “It’s for real?”

“According to your mom, yeah,” Joe shrugged. “So looks like you can go as long as you like. The whole two weeks if you want. You know my dad won’t care.”

“The whole two weeks,” Patrick said slowly. “Well, I have to come back. I have nowhere to stay. But I can go for the day?”

“Every day, if you really really want,” Joe laughed. Patrick grinned. 

“I really really want,” he said. “Is this real?”

“It’s real,” Joe said. Patrick grinned harder. “Don’t tell your mom you know!”

“I won’t,” Patrick said immediately, taking the eggs from Joe and miming keeping his mouth zipped shut. “I won’t, this is the best thing ever.”

Every step towards the house matched the constant refrain echoing in his head--two weeks. Two weeks. Two weeks. It seemed too good to be true, almost setting off Patrick’s suspicious alarms. It seemed almost convenient that his mom was disappearing right after Patrick got his first taste of freedom. Business? What business would his mom have that took two weeks?

The paranoid part of Patrick, the one that had developed over eighteen years of solitude, told Patrick it was a setup. A setup for what, Patrick didn’t know, but a setup nonetheless. Maybe she was testing him. Maybe it was all an act. Maybe--

“Patrick,” his mom said sharply. “Earth to Patrick, are you daydreaming? Are you on drugs?”

“No, Mama,” Patrick said immediately, handing her the eggs which she took with a huff. “It’s just nice outside.”

“It’s snowing,” his mom said flatly, and Patrick tried not to wince. A mood swing. Patrick should have expected that when she was so cheerful. Now it was just a question of how wild the swing was going to be. “You’re delusional. Sit down, I need to talk to you.”

“Yes, Mama,” Patrick said, because he had no choice. His mom sat down across from him, mouth a thin line. Patrick braced himself for whatever she was about to hurl at him. He should have been quieter, this was his fault. 

“Tomorrow I am leaving,” his mom said, and Patrick almost gaped in surprise. “I don’t want to. You know how much I hate leaving you alone. But I have to speak to lawyers about the farm. I have no choice.”

“How long, Mama?” Patrick said, trying to walk the line of sadness--too sad and his mom might not leave. Not sad enough and she’d be suspicious and accuse him of not loving her. 

“Two weeks,” his mom said. “I know it’s a long time. Mr. Trohman is going to watch the farm and you. It’s too much to expect you to be on your own, you’re too young. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Patrick didn’t say anything because he knew he wouldn’t be convincing. Thankfully, his mother chose to take his silence as sadness because she took one of his hands and patted it almost patronizingly. 

“I know you’ll be good for Mr. Trohman, right?” she asked, and Patrick nodded mutely. “That’s my good boy. Don’t disappoint me.”

“I won’t, Mama,” Patrick whispered, but the only thing he could think about was Chicago.

\----

Waiting four hours to make sure his mom was really gone was borderline torture, but it was worth it because he was on the bus to downtown Chicago. His first bus ride ever, and it kind of smelled funny and the road was bumpy but he didn’t care. His heart was racing again, his mind worriedly recounting everything that could possibly go wrong, but he was doing his best to ignore both those things, eyes on the city as they approached. 

Paramore Popcorn. Patrick had memorized that name. He had zero clue where in Chicago Paramore Popcorn was located, but he could probably ask. Or maybe there was a map somewhere. He was totally independent now, he could do it. 

“Um,” he asked the slightly scary looking bus driver. “I’m sorry, sir, but do you know where I can find Paramore Popcorn?”

“Paramore Popcorn,” the bus driver repeated, voice gruff. “Yeah, pretty sure it’s down by Lakeshore. That’s a couple blocks away. This is the closest stop, though.”

“Oh,” Patrick said. “Um, thank you very much.”

“Have a nice day,” the bus driver replied, and, just like that, Patrick found himself on the sidewalk in the middle of Chicago, in the daylight, one hundred percent by himself. 

“I can do this,” he whispered to himself, pulling his coat tighter around his shoulders and setting off in the direction the bus driver had pointed. With every step he took, his confidence grew just a little bit. He was here, again, he was here! And it would suck if he didn’t see Pete, since Pete was like, the only person he knew, but it was okay because he was here. He took the bus all by himself and he didn’t have to worry about his mother. If only he could turn that part of himself off. 

He craned his neck up to see the buildings in the daytime. They glittered in the winter sunlight, like diamonds almost, reflective and bright. The sky was bright blue and cloudless--the snow on the ground was all Patrick was going to get today, but that was okay. He was already cold. Seriously, Chicago was always cold. He needed to remember that tomorrow. 

He felt a tiny stab of guilt at that. Tomorrow. See, logically he knew he couldn’t go to Chicago every day for two weeks without money so he...he kind of borrowed some. Without telling his mom. It was _his_ money anyway, money from his grandma is California for his birthday, and yeah he should have asked but it was his. And he was eighteen. 

Or so he kept telling himself. 

A couple blocks later and his breath stuck in his chest--that was it. Paramore Popcorn. The bright sign said so, cheerful and overpowering the tattoo shop next door ( _Decaydance Tattoo_ , which, wow. Patrick had never seen a real tattoo shop before.)

Paramore Popcorn was decked out in every single Christmas decoration imaginable, from several wreaths hung crookedly in the window, to a snowman and a Christmas tree crammed into view--it was an overdose of Christmas and Patrick wasn’t even inside.

He hesitated--should he go inside? Maybe Pete had invited him to be polite, although he did name drop the shop and why would he do that if he was just being polite? _God,_ Patrick was ridiculous, why couldn’t he just be a normal human being?

“So you escaped eternal captivity?” 

Patrick jumped, slipping on the snow and falling hard onto his hip. He hissed in pain and glanced up, squinting against the sunlight. 

It was Pete, who looked almost comically shocked. Patrick huffed a sigh and pushed himself up, rubbing the sore spot where he’d made contact with the icy ground. Pete offered him a timid smile and Patrick did his best to return it. 

“Hi,” he said. “Uh. Yeah. You said I could--I mean, hi.”

“Hi,” Pete said back, clearly fighting a grin. “Do you remember where you parked this time?”

“Took the bus,” Patrick said proudly before deflating. “As long as that’s not, like, dumb. Or whatever.”

“Riding the bus is actually fucking awesome,” Pete said. “It’s a bitch to get around the city by car. Did you just flinch?”

“No,” Patrick lied. To be fair to himself, that was the first time he heard a real life human say the f-word. And wow, he felt like a _child_ calling it the f-word, but one time he said crap in front of his mom and she washed his mouth out so hard he tasted soap for a week. Pete was grinning, though, in the exact way that Patrick imagined he would. Like he was delighted by Patrick’s innocence. 

Patrick tried not to be resentful.

“I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me that your mom doesn’t swear,” he said. “But I do and I’m gonna get you to and it’s gonna be fun. What are you doing today?”

Patrick shrugged helplessly, gesturing around himself as if to convey _uh...coming to the city?_ He hadn’t exactly planned anything beyond tracking Pete down. Whoops. 

“No plans?” Pete asked, and he actually sounded thrilled. “Oh, awesome. I have the whole day to corrupt the youth. That’s all felons are good for. Come on.”

“That’s not true,” Patrick said, scrambling to catch up with Pete, who’d begun walking immediately. “Hey. Pay attention to me. That’s not true.”

“What’s not true?” Pete asked, probably deliberately obtuse, and Patrick frowned. 

“You’re good for a lot more than that,” he objected, and Pete gave him a slightly patronizing smile. 

“You don’t know me, kid,” Pete said, and Patrick frowned more. 

“I’m not a kid,” he objected. “And I don’t have to know you to know you’re worth more than that.”

Pete stared at him for a long moment and Patrick shivered, the cold air sneaking into his too-thin coat. It might have been sunny, but the wind was brutal. 

“Here,” Pete sighed after a moment, sliding off his coat and handing it to Patrick. “Go on. Take it. I’ve got two sweatshirts on. I’m cold just looking at you.”

Patrick hesitantly took the coat, flashing Pete a small smile. 

_See? You’re a good person._

Miraculously, he didn’t say that, just gave Pete his best possible smile, which Pete returned after a moment.

“Thank you,” Patrick said softly, tugging it on. It was warm and smelled like dark cologne, making Patrick feel a heady rush of heat go straight to his cheeks. He glanced at Pete, smiling again, before sticking his hands in the pockets of Pete’s jacket. 

“Where are we going?” he asked, and Pete grinned. 

“Only the best place in the universe,” he said. “The Alley.”

\-----

“Pete,” Patrick whispered, stepping closer to Pete, eyes wide as he tried to take in everything at once. “What is this place?”

He could practically _feel_ Pete’s amusement before he answered, but Patrick was too nervous to care. He was sure his eyes were huge and he was trying to look everywhere at once. 

“It’s a store,” Pete said mildly. “Surely you’ve been in a store before.”

“The grocery store,” Patrick mumbled. “Why are they wearing spikes?”

“They’re punk,” Pete said, and frowned at Patrick’s questioning look. “You don’t know what a punk is?”

Patrick shook his head. 

“Punk’s a type of music,” Pete said, then gestured around. “This is a store dedicated to it. Basically. You know what music is, right?”

Patrick scowled. 

“Yes,” he said shortly. “I mean, I play piano, so yeah.”

“Have you ever listened to a CD?”

“My mom has the best of Mozart,” Patrick said. “I can play everything on it.”

Pete was undeterred. 

“I meant music from the last century,” he said. “No? That’s not allowed. Come here.”

Patrick let Pete all but drag him through the aisles, Patrick barely managing to not flinch back in terror, until they stopped at what looked like a shelf full of CDs. 

“They’re free,” Pete explained, digging through them with the hand not currently clutching Patrick’s wrist. “These are my favorites.”

Patrick took the three offered CDs uncertainly, trapping his lip between his teeth. 

“Thank you,” he whispered and Pete winked. 

“Don’t thank me yet,” he said. “Corrupting influence, remember?”

“I think it’s time I got corrupted,” Patrick said before he could stop himself, turning bright red the second the words left his mouth. Pete grinned, wide and open, and Patrick’s cheeks got hotter. 

“I almost feel bad about it,” he said. “You are just so cute. Come on, let me introduce you to punk.”

Cute?

Patrick had _never_ been called cute before, much less by another boy, and he felt his cheeks get impossibly hotter as he stumbled after Pete. It felt a little like he was living in a fever dream, that soon he’d wake up and never have met Pete, never have come to Chicago. 

If it was, he never wanted to wake up. 

“I used to work here,” Pete said, dropping a beanie onto Patrick’s head. “When I was young and a menace.”

“Aren’t you still young?” Patrick asked, pushing the beanie out of his eyes. Pete laughed. 

“I don’t feel too young sometimes,” Pete said. 

“Why’d you stop working here?” Patrick asked. 

“I took a vacation,” Pete said, and, at Patrick’s confused look: “To prison. I went to prison, kid.”

“I told you, I’m not a kid,” Patrick said, but he had a feeling it was like talking to a brick wall. “What did you go to prison for?”

“Assassinating the President,” Pete said promptly, and Patrick rolled his eyes.

“You said nonviolent,” he pointed out. 

“You’re far too smart for your own good,” Pete said. “Were you this mouthy in high school?”

“I was homeschooled,” Patrick said. “And no. If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. When did you go?”

“When I was sixteen,” Pete said. “Did four years and got out a few months ago. Yes, that makes me twenty, very good math.”

“You’re a little mean,” Patrick said, frowning. “But I like you anyway. What’s with the beanie?”

“It looks cute on you,” Pete shrugged. “How on Earth could you possibly like me? I’m giving you every reason in the book not to.”

“You’re not _that_ mean,” Patrick said. “And I like talking to you. It’s nice to talk to someone outside the farm.”

“I need to get you to meet actual nice people,” Pete said. “So I feel less like this whole situation is Stockholm Syndrome.”

“What’s that?” Patrick asked, and Pete huffed a laugh. “What? Homeschooled, remember?”

“I remember,” Pete said. Patrick swallowed and looked down at the CDs in his hands. 

“Green Day,” he said. “You like them?”

“I like most music I listen to,” Pete said. “But yes, they’re one of the ones I like more. You gotta listen to it without any interruptions, though. Like after your mom goes to bed.”

“My mom’s gone for two weeks,” Patrick said, glancing up, cheeks hot. “It’s why I’m here.”

Pete stared at him for a long moment before breaking into a bright grin. 

“Two weeks?” he asked. “She left and you immediately broke her rules? Corrupting you is going to be so much easier than I thought. If I got you into a bar, would you go?”

“A _bar?”_ Patrick demanded, dumbfounded, and Pete shook his head. 

“Nevermind, dumb idea,” he said. “Probably shouldn’t break the law on parole. Are you planning on coming here every day?”

“Yeah,” Patrick said softly, and Pete grinned harder. 

“You’re going to have so much fun,” he promised. “You’re never gonna wanna go back.”

“I already don’t want to go back,” Patrick said unhappily, and Pete flicked his ear. 

“My work is halfway done,” he said. “Let’s go.”

“Go where?” Patrick asked, even as he stumbled after Pete. 

“There’s a whole city to show you,” Pete called behind him. “And I only have two weeks to do it.”

Patrick grinned and rushed to catch up, sure his cheeks were pink. 

He really never, ever wanted to go back home.

\----

Patrick laid on his stomach on his bed, the house entirely too still and silent after the city. It made him kind of itch, made him antsy and ready to go. He wished he could have stayed. It was borderline unbearable in the overwhelming silence of home. 

His eyes caught the CDs resting on his dresser and he almost broke something racing to grab them. That was right. The house didn’t have to be silent. He could listen to Pete’s bands, then he could tell Pete he listened to the weird spikey jacket music that Pete loved so much. 

He popped the Green Day CD into his battered CD player, lying the best of Mozart to the side with barely a glance. It took a moment to boot up and read the disc, but once it did, music began emanating from the tinny speakers, crackling with age and overuse. Patrick turned it up cautiously, sitting on the floor in front of the CD player and concentrating. 

It was...odd music, no doubt about that, much different than the classical that Patrick was used to, but he didn’t hate it, which was almost what he expected after how terrifying the store was. Patrick closed his eyes, concentrated a little more. The beat was almost infectious: Patrick was tapping it against his thigh and already thinking of how he could play it on piano. 

The lyrics hit him second. Patrick wasn’t used to music with lyrics, the best he got was Frank Sinatra occasionally, but these lyrics were different. 

The whole thing was different, but these lyrics kind of chilled Patrick to the bone for all the right reasons. He nodded his head along as he listened, unwittingly picturing Pete listening to the same album. He’d probably have something smart to say, or a joke to make fun of how little Patrick knew about real life, but the idea was nice. Listening to music with a….a friend. 

He also thought about this being Pete’s favorite. The lyrics were kind of angry, even though they were good, and it hurt a little to imagine Pete so angry he identified with these songs. Pete didn’t seem that angry, but maybe he used to be. Before he did whatever he did to go to prison.

It still didn’t matter, not really. Jail to Patrick was this house, was this family. Jail was just something his mom threatened him with when he was younger, to scare him into obeying. Pete was someone awesome, someone totally different, who made Patrick smile and showed him around and...and was kind of….looked good. Or whatever. 

It didn’t matter. Patrick was firm about that. He wasn’t going to ruin his first real friendship with weirdness. Liking boys had surprisingly not been anything his mom talked about. He knew it was a thing--every so often, Patrick would catch a bit about it when his mom watched the news, but she never talked about it one way or the other. 

Nor had it been anything Patrick told her about, especially when he realized that he blushed around Joe for reasons other than his constant social anxiety. 

Patrick propped his head on his hand, switching CDs and closing his eyes to listen again. It was similar to the other, but definitely not the same, and Patrick thought he actually liked this music. Pete had good taste. 

He drummed his fingers against his thigh some more and tried hard not to go back to Chicago that night. 

\----

“Hi,” he said quietly, stepping into Paramore Popcorn. Meagan was behind the counter and she beamed. 

“Hi!” she said enthusiastically. “Are you here for Pete again?”

“Yeah,” he said, biting his lip. “As long as I’m not annoying him.”

“Annoying him?” Meagan said, laughing. “Sweetie, I’ve never seen him this happy. You’re a cutie.”

“Thanks?” Patrick asked, and Meagan grinned at him. 

“Is it true you told him you didn’t care that he went to prison?” she asked.

“Uh,” Patrick said. “Yeah? Why would I care?”

“You don’t know what he did,” Meagan pointed out. Patrick shrugged. 

“I don’t have to,” he said. “I know he’s a good person.”

“Wow,” Meagan said. “You really are something else. Is it true you’re Rapunzel?”

“Rapunzel?” Patrick had no idea what on Earth _that_ meant, but he’d answered whatever question Meagan had asked just like that, judging on her growing grin. 

“Oh, my God,” she said. “You are _adorable._ I’m Meagan.”

“I know,” Patrick said, which was probably rude. Meagan grinned anyway. 

“Well, for the record,” she said. “You seem like a pretty good person yourself. Pete!”

“Coming!” Pete called back, and Patrick tried not to blush as Pete ducked out of the back and laid eyes on him.

Patrick held up the first CD, the Green Day one, before Pete had said a word. 

“I loved it,” he said, and Pete broke into a grin. “These are _awesome.”_

Pete punched the air in celebration, leaning in to smack a kiss on Patrick’s cheek. Patrick’s eyes got huge and his heart skipped a beat, went stutter-stop, but Pete seemed not to notice in the slightest, hooking an arm with Patrick’s. 

“You’re wearing my jacket,” he said, eyes landing on it, and Patrick’s face burned. 

“It’s comfortable,” he managed, and Pete grinned. 

“Looks better on you than it ever did on me,” he said. “Is the witch still gone? Sorry, I mean your prison guard. Shit, _sorry--”_

“Yes, my mom’s still gone,” Patrick said, fighting laughter. “Where are you taking me today?”

“Museum of Science and Industry,” Pete said. Patrick shot him a look. “What?”

“You’re supposed to be corrupting me,” he said, and Pete rolled his eyes. 

“I am,” he said petulantly. “I’m corrupting you with _knowledge_. Come on.”

The museum was actually pretty cool. Patrick watched the train circling around for longer than he probably should have, but he was entranced by it. Walking down Yesterday’s Main Street was equally fascinating, Patrick unable to decide what to focus on first.

Patrick paid the most attention to Pete, though. He was surprisingly animated, talking with his hands as they walked through the museum, telling him endless anecdotes and facts seemingly as soon as they crossed his mind. 

Patrick loved it. He assumed most people found it annoying, but Patrick loved hearing Pete talk. And maybe that was a little weird and maybe it was because when Pete talked, Patrick got to look at him for as long as he wanted, but Patrick liked it nonetheless. 

Also, Pete seemed….happy. Like, really happy. It was a really nice look on him, brightened his usually dark and guarded eyes. It made him look like a real human being instead of a defensive shell.

Patrick could relate. More than Pete probably realized. 

“Sorry,” Pete said, evidently realizing he’d been talking for ten minutes straight. “I talk a lot.”

“No,” Patrick said, grinning softly. “I like it. You have a nice voice. And you’re passionate.”

“That’s a very nice way of saying I’m insufferable,” Pete said, and Patrick rolled his eyes. 

“I mean passionate,” he corrected. “I like it. I want to know everything you know.”

“If you insist,” Pete said, linking their arms. Patrick felt his mouth go a little dry but he forced himself to ignore it. “Hey--hey, so. Tomorrow night, there’s this show. It’s Green Day, down at the Metro. I know you’ve probably never been to one and it’s probably scary to throw you directly into a punk show, but if you wanted to come, you could. You could stay at my place, since the busses don’t run that late.”

“You mean it?” Patrick asked, and Pete frowned. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked, and Patrick shrugged. 

“I know I’m weird,” he confessed. “And kind of out of touch. It means a lot that you still hang out with me.”

“Listen,” Pete said, stopping dead in the middle of the walkway. “I don’t think you’re weird. You’re just experiencing a new life. I felt like that, too, when I got released. You’ll acclimate soon. Besides. I like spending time with you, more than anyone I’ve met. But if you repeat that, I’ll have to kill you.”

“I’ll keep your secret,” Patrick whispered, grinning, and before he could help himself, went up on tiptoes and gently kissed Pete’s cheek. 

Pete had a slightly pink face when Patrick pulled back and he looked at Patrick incredulously for a long moment. 

“Is that a yes?” he asked finally, and Patrick burst into laughter before nodding. “Oh, good. It’s gonna blow your mind.”

\-----

“Are people gonna punch me?” Patrick asked under his breath as they waited in front of the stage. Pete rolled his eyes and nudged him. 

“I’ll protect you,” he reassured him. “We’re all just here for the music. Relax.”

“I’m trying,” Patrick said as the lights went down. He grasped for Pete’s hand, who squeezed it back. Patrick _felt_ the opening vibrations, felt them in his chest, and as the lights came up on the band, his breath caught. 

Never. Never in a million years did Patrick ever think he would be here, in the city at night, watching a band his mother would hate, with a boy he may or may not like _like that._

He couldn’t help the smile taking over his face as the band launched into their first song. The bodies around him were moving to the beat, dancing together and alone, and Pete pulled him closer. Patrick wanted to say something reassuring, thinking maybe Pete misinterpreted his stillness, but then Pete wrapped his arms around Patrick, pressing Patrick’s back to his chest, and began moving. 

It took Patrick a second to realize Pete was dancing, dancing _with Patrick_ , and Patrick knew his cheeks were bright red--he’d never been this close to anyone, let alone someone like _Pete_ , and it felt almost scandalous to be pressed entirely against Pete, no breathing room at all. It felt wrong that Patrick liked it. Because he definitely did.

After a minute of uncertainty and his mother screeching at him in his ear, Patrick hesitantly moved, too, copying Pete’s moves as best he could. He figured he succeeded because Pete held him tighter and kept going. 

Patrick closed his eyes and let the music wash over him, feeling perfect and alive. 

It ended all too soon--Patrick knew it had been several hours, but Patrick wanted days of that feeling. He was sweaty and probably gross smelling, but he still felt Pete’s heat against his back and his hand hadn’t left Pete’s at all: not through the laughter-filled walk to the train, not through the train ride in companionable silence, not until they were standing in Pete’s tiny living room and Patrick still felt alive. 

After a long moment of looking at each other, they both spoke at once.

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry.”

Patrick blinked in surprise. 

“Sorry for what?” he asked, confused. Pete sighed shakily. 

“A whole list of things,” he said regretfully. “Sorry for grabbing you during the show, sorry for probably making you feel uncomfortable, sorry I literally have no other place for you to sleep but my bed, sorry--”

Patrick reached out and covered Pete’s mouth, not wanting to hear another word. Pete’s eyebrow raised in surprise, and Patrick took a deep breath. 

“Tonight, I actually felt like a whole person,” he said quietly. “I’ve been feeling like a shadow of someone for so long. I’ve never felt like that before. Nothing you did made me feel uncomfortable--I felt amazing. Okay? And I don’t think it will kill me to share a bed. You’re letting me stay, that’s pretty damn awesome.”

Patrick felt Pete’s lips twist into a smile so he took his hand away to face Pete’s amused expression. 

“You said damn,” he pointed out. “I am so close.”

Patrick narrowed his eyes. 

“ _Fuck,”_ he said, and Pete actually took a step back. “Is that better?”

“I’m so much better at this than I thought,” Pete said, and Patrick burst into laughter, Pete joining in after a minute. 

“Oh my God,” Patrick whispered. “I never want to go back to the way I was.”

“You don’t have to,” Pete said gently. “You don’t have to bow down to her.”

“I know,” Patrick said, voice tiny. “I know that. It’s just hard. I’ve been with just her for eighteen years. I don’t know if I know how to be an adult.”

“No one does,” Pete said. “I sure as hell don’t. I’m trying my best, and you can, too.”

“Your best is kind of amazing,” Patrick said. Pete rolled his eyes. “No, really. You want to be all hard on yourself but you’re a genuinely good guy, Pete. Let yourself be appreciated.”

“I’m a _felon,”_ Pete emphasized, and Patrick groaned. 

“So what?” he asked. “What did you get arrested for? Just tell me. I guarantee you I don’t mind.”

“I--” Pete said, then exhaled harshly and all but threw up his hands. “I was sixteen, alright? It was fucking dumb, I know it was dumb, and I know I was a shitty human being for doing it but my friends at the time thought it would be funny. We stole from this old guy. I took his wallet and ran but when I turned around my friends were beating him up. I could have stopped them, I could have called the police, but I was too chickenshit. Fuck. I just fucking ran. And I got caught anyway, and the only reason I didn’t get burned for the assault was that I didn’t hit the guy.”

“Pete,” Patrick said softly, and Pete winced, looking away like he was horrifically ashamed to look at Patrick before continuing in a tiny voice. 

“And even after serving four years, I’m lucky,” he whispered. “Because that guy died. My other friends--ex friends--are in prison for life. For murder. Even though I all but killed the guy, too.”

“You didn’t,” Patrick said, reaching out and gently taking Pete’s hand. “You didn’t. You were sixteen and it was your ex friend’s fault. I know it must feel awful, but it’s not your fault.”

“You’re only saying that because--” Pete said, and broke off. “Because--”

“Because what?” Patrick asked. “Because I’m naive? Because I’ve been kept inside for eighteen years by my mother? I still know right from wrong, Pete. And you made a mistake, but your friends chose to hurt him. Not you.”

Pete just stared at him, swallowing hard, eyes full of tears. Patrick squeezed Pete’s hand gently and took a deep breath. 

“When I was two, my dad and brothers died in a car accident,” Patrick said. “I was the only survivor. And ever since then, my mother has been overprotective. It wasn’t until this year that I was allowed to walk up the street to the store by myself. Until now, I’ve never had a real friend. Until now, the only people I would talk to were the farmhands, and even then she supervised me the whole time. This--” Patrick gestured around himself.”--is the most I’ve ever done. And you’re the one who freed me, Pete. You.”

“I’m not noble,” Pete said, and Patrick shook his head. 

“You don’t have to be,” he said. “You’re a human being. Nobody expects you to be perfect.”

“Fuck,” Pete said, and took two steps forward to kiss Patrick, hard.

Patrick’s heart abruptly stopped before hammering back to life in his chest. Every sense he had was completely narrowed down to Pete and Pete alone, Pete’s hands cradling his face, his rough, chapped lips, the small breaths he huffed into Patrick’s mouth. 

Patrick’s only kiss in his life was with Joe, halting and nervous and experimental and _nothing_ like this. Patrick didn’t know how to kiss, had no idea if he was even doing it right, but he never, ever wanted it to stop. 

He gasped for breath, trying his best to kiss back, clutching the front of Pete’s sweatshirt like a lifeline. Pete’s stubble scraped across Patrick’s cheek, leaving a burning trail after it, making Patrick shudder. 

Pete pulled back, still inches from Patrick’s mouth, and sucked in a deep breath, groaning when Patrick bit his own lip, nervous. 

“Okay?” he asked, and Patrick whined before he could help it, nodding quickly. “Fuck.”

Pete leaned back in and Patrick closed his eyes and _wanted._

\----

Despite Patrick’s very best pleading eyes, perfected in the mirror for years, Pete would not do anything besides kiss him. His excuse was stupid.

“I know it’s going to be your first time,” he’d said. “So no, I’m not letting you jump into it. Think about it first.”

It was probably reasonable or whatever but Patrick really wanted it. More than kissing, that was. He tried to settle for kissing, though, because kissing Pete was really, _really_ nice. Really nice. 

“You’ll come back tomorrow?” Pete asked before Patrick boarded the bus to reluctantly head home. “Please say yes.”

“Of course,” Patrick said. “You have the whole rest of the city to show me. And other stuff.”

“Brat,” Pete teased, but kissed him anyway. “Can’t wait to see you.”

“Can’t wait to see you,” Patrick breathed back.

The ride home was miserable. Patrick knew it was too soon to be in love, he knew it, but his chest ached. He really liked Pete, really liked spending time with him, really liked sleeping next to him. He just really liked Pete and wanted to spend all the time he could with him before his mother got back. 

He didn’t even want to stay with his mother anymore but he couldn’t figure out how to leave yet. 

The house was dark when he climbed back through his window. He didn’t have a key so he’d been relying on leaving his window unlocked so he could get in and out. He dropped his backpack by the bed and sighed.

All the blood drained out of his face when the light clicked on. 

“How dare you.”

“Mama,” Patrick said hoarsely. “Mama, I can explain--”

“Explain?” his mother demanded, stepping forward. Her face was the picture of rage, mouth a thin line, eyes narrowed, hands in fists at her side. Her hair was unkempt, like she’d been pacing and worrying for hours, and Patrick felt a little sick. “Explain what? How I trusted you and you betrayed me?”

“I just--”

“You just!” his mother snapped. “You _just!_ You just what, went off somewhere on your own? You could have died! You could have died and I would never have known!”

“I just went to the city, Mama,” Patrick said desperately. “It wasn’t that far! I was fine! Mama, I’m eighteen, there’s no reason for me to be trapped in the house all the time.”

His mother went still and Patrick abruptly realized his mistake. He shook his head but it was far too late. 

“Trapped?” his mother asked, eerily calm. “Is that what you think? You think me providing you a roof, a bedroom, food, and everything you could possibly need is me _trapping_ you?”

“I just want to be allowed to do things,” Patrick said. “I just want friends.”

“You have me,” his mother spat. “What else could you need besides your own mother? And you accuse me of trapping you here, like this is a jail? Who told you that, your new friends? The felon and the whore?”

“Meagan’s not--”

“She is!” his mother snapped. “She is. She hangs around with a felon. Do you know how dangerous felons are?”

“Pete’s not dangerous,” Patrick protested. “And if that makes Meagan a whore, what am I?”

“Don’t test me,” his mother warned. “Do you think I don’t know you spent the night with him? You kissed him? What else did you do?”

“Nothing,” Patrick said. His mother scowled.

“Liar,” she said. “I don’t trust a word you say anymore. You’re going to have to work very, very hard to gain it back. And you’re not leaving this house.”

“So I am trapped,” Patrick said, before he could stop himself. A cold, furious look crossed his mother’s face and she stalked forward, grabbing Patrick’s arm hard. 

“If you want to be trapped, I can trap you,” she hissed. “I’ll show you trapped.”

“Mama, no!” Patrick protested, but his mother was stronger than him and dragged him through the house to the back door with ease. He struggled, but the snow was slippery and his fear made him uncoordinated. He choked back tears as she pinned him to the small barn. 

“This can be your new bedroom,” she snapped. “If you want to learn what jail really is, here you go. You can live here for a couple weeks, and then we can talk about how you betrayed me.”

“Mama, it's cold,” Patrick whispered and an ugly smirk crossed his mother's face. 

“So is jail,” she said. “Didn't your felon tell you that? I'll bring you some blankets if you’re lucky. You can think very hard about what you did for two weeks.”

“Let me go,” Patrick pleaded quietly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Joe walking with his father to their truck, carrying bags. His mother followed his gaze and laughed derisively. 

“I fired them,” she said coldly. “Since they enabled you. Look what you did, Patrick. I hope it was all worth it. You're never seeing anyone again, least of all your little boyfriend.”

His mother didn't give him time to respond to that, just wrenched the barn door open and pushed Patrick through, slamming and locking the door behind him. Patrick stared helplessly at it through the darkness, fighting tears and trembling. 

“I'm very disappointed in you, Patrick,” his mother said from outside the barn. “So very disappointed.”

Patrick felt hot tears slide down his cheeks as he heard his mom's footsteps through the snow. He glanced around, trying to calm down, but his surroundings didn't help in the slightest. 

It was dark. So dark. There were no windows and the only other things in here was extra hay for the chicken coop. Patrick was alone, now, really and truly alone. He was never getting free. His mother would never give him another opportunity again. 

He buried his face in his cold hands and cried.

\----

Patrick didn't know exactly how long he had been in the barn. Days kind of ran together. His mother did bring him some blankets and allowed him out three times to eat and use the bathroom. It felt like a few days, at least, because Patrick was starving and freezing and close to completely giving up. 

He felt sick. He'd promised Pete he would come back. And he hoped Pete realized that Patrick got caught, but even if he did, there was nothing he could do. He had no idea where Patrick lived besides Wilmette. Patrick was alone entirely. Just the way his mother liked him.

Patrick was praying his mom would come soon to let him out for a bathroom break and food, because he was so hungry and almost shaking with how bad he needed to pee. And he was so cold.

He knew he could probably get his mom to let him out if he apologized and pandered to her, but he refused. He shouldn't have to apologize, he didn't do anything wrong. He didn't deserve this.

“Patrick!” 

Patrick jumped in surprise, scrambling to the door and listening hard. 

“Joe?” he whispered disbelievingly. “What are you doing here?”

“To check on you,” Joe whispered back. “I didn't think she'd actually lock you up.”

“She did,” Patrick said shakily. “I'm stuck here forever now, Joe. What'll I do?”

“I'm gonna get you out of here,” Joe said, determined. “I'm gonna do something.”

“Don't get hurt,” Patrick pleaded. “Be careful.”

“I will,” Joe said. An idea hit Patrick and he sat up suddenly.

“Joe!” he whispered. “Can you get to Chicago?”

“Yeah, of course. Why?”

“Can you find Pete?” Patrick begged. “Can you tell him what happened? So he doesn't think I stood him up?”

“Yeah, Patrick,” Joe whispered sadly. “‘Course I will. Where is he?”

“He works at Paramore Popcorn.”

“Oh,” Joe said. “So--so he _is_ a felon?”

“He's not dangerous or anything,” Patrick said, quick to reassure him. He paused. “Wait, how did you know that?”

“Paramore Popcorn only hires felons,” Joe said. “It's like their whole thing. But I'm not afraid or anything! I'll find him, promise.”

“Thank you,” Patrick mumbled, fighting tears. “Just--I really like him. Tell him sorry. Please.”

“I will,” Joe said. Patrick heard the sliding door begin to open and his breath caught. 

“Leave before she sees you!” he hissed.

“It'll be okay,” Joe said quickly, and Patrick heard him leave, running, it sounded like. Patrick took a deep breath and started counting down from twenty. 

Nineteen. Eighteen.

He got to twelve before he heard the padlock open. He swallowed back tears and hoped his face looked impassive, even though he couldn't feel his fingers and he was pretty sure his lips were blue.

“Are you ready to apologize?”

Patrick said nothing and his mother scowled, the light from the house framing her, making her look like a demon come to grab Patrick's soul. She stepped back and Patrick walked through, towards the house, holding his head up as high as possible.

He hoped more than anything that Joe really would find Pete.

\----

The blankets weren’t enough. It had to be nighttime, that was why it was so cold so suddenly. Shivers wracked Patrick’s body even under the two blankets his mother gave him, even in Pete’s coat that he was still wearing. He couldn’t stop shivering. His hands were numb and his nose was numb and his skin felt tight and uncomfortable. 

He hunched in on himself, trying to warm up as best he could, but it was so cold. He wanted to cry but he didn’t think he had enough energy left to do it with, everything he had was already being spent uselessly trying to warm himself up. He didn’t even feel like he had enough air to call for his mom and beg for something. He wasn’t sure what and he knew she wouldn’t care but it was so cold Patrick hurt all over. 

In the tiny crack under the door, Patrick saw bright lights flashing. They were red and blue and he thought that if he really concentrated, he could remember where he’d seen them before. Faintly, he could hear talking and footsteps towards the barn and suddenly, he heard his mother’s voice. 

“It’s just a barn,” she was saying. “Just where we keep excess supplies. Obviously no one could live in it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” someone replied to her, in an almost patronizing tone. “That’s the problem we’re investigating. Open it up, please.”

“Who on Earth even reported something so wild?” his mother asked. “It had to be the Trohman’s. I just fired them.”

“I don’t have to tell you who reported you, nor will I,” the same person said. “Open the door to the barn, ma’am. If you’re telling the truth, what are you waiting for?”

His mom didn’t respond, but after a long moment, Patrick heard the key in the padlock. He blinked exhaustion out of his eyes and squinted at the door was pulled open to reveal his mother, blank faced, and a police officer next to her. The police officer looked shocked and borderline horrified to see Patrick there, and he glanced over his shoulder and seemingly wordlessly communicated with people behind him.

To Patrick’s surprise, two more police officers stepped into view and began--arresting? His mother?

“You have the right to remain silent,” one was saying, but Patrick’s attention was derailed immediately as the first officer knelt in front of him. His heavy looking jacket said _Hurley,_ which Patrick assumed was the officer’s last name, and he tugged off his beanie to place it on Patrick’s head. 

“Come on,” he said gently, helping Patrick to his feet. “That’s it, come on. You’re okay now. My name’s Andy, you’re Patrick, right?”

“Yeah,” Patrick mumbled, shivering harder as he stepped out of the barn. Another officer covered him with a silver, crinkly blanket and put something warm in Patrick’s stiff, frozen hands.

“Do we need a bus?” an officer asked Andy, and Andy surveyed Patrick for a moment. 

“Probably a good idea,” he said. “My parolee said he’s been missing for three days. Have you been in there since you disappeared, Patrick?”

Patrick nodded. His shivering was decreasing but he still felt exhausted and hungry and scared, unsure what was really happening. Did they _really_ just arrest his mother? For what?

Andy seemed to notice Patrick beginning to check out because he ushered him into one of the police cars, heater running. He glanced over his shoulder. 

“Yeah, bus, now,” he said, and the officer he was talking to reached for his radio. Andy focused back on Patrick. “I don’t say this often, but you’re pretty lucky you have a felon for a friend. And that your friend has me for their parole officer.”

“What?” Patrick asked, trying his best to concentrate. Everything seemed kind of blurry at the moment, like he was underwater and everyone else was on land. Andy squeezed his shoulder. 

“I’m a parole officer,” he said. “One of my ex-convicts came to me this afternoon and said his friend had been kidnapped. I doubted it, but he insisted. Gave me your description and address and said you’d be in the barn. I told him that if you weren’t here, I was considering it a violation of his parole, but he stood by what he said. If he didn’t have me at his disposal, it might have been weeks to find you.”

“Pete?” Patrick asked, mouth feeling like it was full of cotton. Andy nodded. 

“That’s him,” he said. “I’m glad he came to me. How did she get ahold of you?”

“She’s my mom,” Patrick mumbled. “I tried to leave and she didn’t want me to. Even though I’m eighteen.”

“So she locked you in the barn?” Andy asked, confused. Patrick nodded, shivering a little. “All because you wanted to move out?”

“I’ve never been let out of the house,” Patrick explained. “I snuck out and she caught me.”

“I’m sorry,” Andy said. Patrick squinted as the bright lights of an ambulance cut through the night. “Let’s get you out of here and checked out, okay?”

“Okay,” Patrick said. He felt numb. Numb inside, numb outside, numb. Like he was going to wake up at any moment and be back with his mother forever. He went where Andy gently led him, trying to stay calm.

\----

After a long time in the Emergency Room, where he was worked over completely by doctors and nurses horrified by the fact that Patrick hadn’t seen a doctor since he was two, Patrick was exhausted. It was all kind of, sort of, _completely_ overwhelming, Patrick barely hanging on through being poked with needles. 

He all but devoured the food they gave him, which only served to upset them more, and it wasn’t until they decided he was okay to go home that Patrick realized he no longer technically had one of those. A home, that was.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly when an officer asked where he wanted to go. “I don’t--I don’t have anywhere.”

The officer looked sad as she patted him on the shoulder. 

“Let me go figure something out,” she offered, and Patrick nodded mutely. Being alone wasn’t anything he wasn’t used to but there was a strange feeling settling over him now. Every so often he panicked, thinking _Mama’s gonna kill me_ before remembering everything that had happened so far like it was a dream. Patrick wasn’t entirely sure it _wasn’t_ a dream. A very elaborate dream.

Around him, hospital life continued. Patients were wheeled past where he was awkwardly sitting, still in his clothes from three days ago, still in Pete’s coat, which he clung to out of sheer self-preservation. The doctor said it was normal to feel overwhelmed, but Patrick was beyond that. Any time he tried to think about what happened, he all but shut down.

“Hi,” the officer said, evidently returning. Patrick jumped and refocused on her and the person she’d brought with her. 

“Joe,” Patrick said, voice cracking, and Joe threw his arms around Patrick, holding on tight. “You did it.”

“All I could think of was how cold it was,” Joe whispered. “How cold you had to be, and alone. I didn’t tell my dad, I just went into Chicago and found Pete.”

“You found him,” Patrick whispered. Joe nodded into his shoulder. “Thank you. You saved me.”

“I had to,” Joe explained. “I had to, Patrick. I found him and I said I knew you and he basically dropped what he was holding and dragged me to the back of the shop for all the information I had. I told him and I said I didn’t know what I could do and he said he did. Whatever he did worked.”

“He went to his parole officer,” Patrick said, remembering what Andy had said through a haze. “He risked more jail time for me.”

“I’m so glad he did,” Joe choked, and Patrick swallowed past his own tears until Joe cleared his throat and squeezed him. “When can you leave?”

“Um,” Patrick said, swallowing hard. “Now? But I don’t have anywhere to go. They arrested my mom.”

“Good,” Joe said, scowling, before shaking his head. “You come with me, of course. You think my dad would leave you without a place to sleep? Of course you can stay with me.”

“I can’t--”

“Okay, well, first of all, you don’t have to _pay_ me,” Joe said, obviously knowing was Patrick was going to say. “Also, my dad did some digging. Turns out your mom might have had another reason for keeping you with her. Like the money you got from the accident.”

“Money?” Patrick asked. Joe looked almost gleeful now, like he had a juicy secret and couldn’t wait to share it. “I don’t have any money.”

“Yeah, you totally do,” Joe said, grinning. “You totally have enough to be a whole, real adult. Without her.”

Patrick shook his head. 

“I don’t know how to be an adult,” he said. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“That’s okay,” Joe said gently. “Lots of people are here to help you out.”

“Thank you,” Patrick whispered, because he couldn’t think of what else he could possibly say. “Just….thank you.”

Joe shook his head, looking at Patrick fondly. 

“You don’t need to thank me,” he said, then took Patrick’s hand. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

\----

It took Patrick two days to work up the courage to ask Joe’s dad if he could go into the city. 

“You don’t have to ask,” Mr. Trohman told him. “You can just tell me you’re going.”

It would probably take Patrick a long time to get used to that. It would probably take Patrick a long time to get used to any of this. The first thing he did with the money he still couldn’t quite believe he had--almost half a million dollars, all for being a baby in a car accident--was buy clothes to wear. He’d been wearing the same five things for eighteen years and he wanted to never look at them again. 

He’d washed Pete’s coat and had it over his arm as he hesitated outside Paramore Popcorn. Maybe--maybe Pete _didn’t_ want to see him. Maybe Patrick was too messed up, maybe Pete realized that. The logical part of Patrick’s brain told him he was being ridiculous, but he still worried. He couldn’t help it. 

Steeling himself, he took a deep breath and stepped through the door, grinning at the familiar smell before he could help himself. The shop was empty, the bell on the door loud over the soft Christmas music playing overhead, and Patrick glanced around. 

It was exactly the same, which didn’t surprise him. It was a couple days until Christmas, which, if Pete still liked him like Patrick liked him, that was all the Christmas Patrick needed. 

“Be right with you!” someone shouted. It sounded like Meagan. Patrick wandered the shop as he waited, looking at the different popcorn varieties and decorations crammed into every conceivable corner. On a message board, among secret Santa requests and paper snowflakes, was pictures and profiles of the employees.

Joe was right. They were all ex-prisoners. And they all looked like lovely people. 

Joe spotted Meagan right away, her blue hair bright and smile brighter. Underneath, it read:

 _Hi, I’m Meagan. I’m twenty one. I’ve been working at Paramore Popcorn for one year. I_ _got convicted of possession of a controlled substance when I was eighteen and spent two years in prison_. _Being able to have a job despite that has made me immensely grateful. I hope you have a lovely holiday and thank you for supporting us._

_Favorite holiday song: Santa Baby_

Patrick smothered a laugh, moving onto the next (Spencer Smith, grand theft auto, favorite song: Jingle Bells) and the one after that (Brendon Urie, aggravated trespass, favorite song: Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer) before stopping on the one he was not so subtly looking for. 

Pete was grinning, but he still looked serious, eyes dark. His tattoos were slightly visible, but he had a Santa hat crammed on his straightened hair like he was really trying to be happy. Patrick bit his lip and read his statement. 

_I’m Pete and I’m twenty. I’ve been working here for half a year. When I was sixteen I made a bad mistake and got convicted of grand larceny and spent four years in prison for it._ _I wanted so badly to start over fresh but the only place to give me a chance was here. I’ve never been more grateful to have people who care about me. Thank you for supporting us and being so kind._

_Favorite holiday song: All I Want For Christmas Is You_

Patrick couldn’t help the fond look he was sure was all over his face as he looked at Pete’s picture and his little introduction. He really liked Pete. That was probably super obvious to literally everyone, but it was still true. He liked Pete. 

Pete was a sincerely wonderful person, one of the best Patrick had ever met. And sure, Patrick hadn’t met many people, but he felt like his intuition was good anyway. Pete was just….Pete was wonderful. Patrick hoped desperately that he still wanted to be around Patrick. Even if he didn’t want to kiss. Or do anything else. 

“Hey, sorry, how can I help you?”

Patrick turned around, waving a little shyly at Meagan’s surprised grin. 

“Hi,” he said softly, and she immediately came around the counter to hug him. 

“I was so worried,” she said, leaning back. “I know we barely know each other but you’re so adorable and when your friend said what happened--I’m glad you’re alright. You--you are alright, right?”

“Right,” Patrick rushed to reassure her at her uncertain look. “I’m okay now. Thank you. I’m--I’m sorry it took so long to get here. I had to get used to a lot of stuff and give my statement to police and. And a bunch of other stuff. I hope I didn’t upset him.”

Meagan shook her head. 

“I don’t think you could possibly do that,” she said gently. “He’s going to be so excited to see you, hang on--Pete! PETE!”

“You need to learn to stop shouting,” Pete grumbled, poking his head out from the backroom. “This is a professional environ--”

Pete’s eyes landed on Patrick and he abruptly stopped talking, staring at Patrick for so long Patrick started to worry. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, to break the tension, but before he could, Pete took five steps across the shop and yanked Patrick into his arms. 

“You’re okay,” he whispered. “Oh, God, you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” Patrick mumbled into Pete’s shoulder. “Because of you. You--you saved me. Thank you.”

“How could I ever--” Pete cut himself off by burying his face into Patrick’s hair and taking a deep, slow breath before letting Patrick go with reluctance. “What happened?”

“I met your parole officer,” Patrick said, grinning a little. “They arrested my mother. Turns out she was keeping a lot of things from me, like a settlement from the accident. Explains why she wouldn’t let me leave.”

“That does explain it,” Pete said. He gently cupped Patrick’s cheeks and rested his forehead on Patrick’s. “I’m so thankful you’re okay, Patrick.”

“Me too,” Patrick whispered. “I, uh. Here. It’s clean. If you want it back.”

He held out the coat with slightly clammy and shaky hands. Pete looked at it before looking back at Patrick, eyebrow raised. 

“It looks better on you,” he said, a hint of what sounded like a challenge in his voice. Patrick took a deep breath and tried to rise to that challenge. 

“I like it better when it smells like you,” he said, only halfway mumbling, and Pete grinned, wide and unreserved, making Patrick helplessly copy him. 

“I should wear it ASAP,” he said quietly. “So I can see you in it again.”

“Yeah,” Patrick said, biting his lip. “You should.”

Patrick reached deep into himself and yanked out all the courage he had before stepping close and pressing his lips softly to Pete’s, pulling back a little and averting his gaze. 

All at once, Pete exhaled, turning Patrick’s face back towards him and kissing him properly, like he meant it. Patrick all but melted, hoping his kisses were good, hoping he was decent. Based on the fact that Pete didn’t stop, choosing to wrap an arm around Patrick’s waist and draw him closer, Patrick had succeeded. 

They broke apart a few inches to gasp for breath and Patrick giggled a little as Pete kissed his cheek, the curve of his jaw. Pete took the coat and pulled it on, winking at Patrick. 

“Gotta get started now,” he teased, and Patrick grinned. “You’re--you’re something else.”

“So I’ve been told,” Patrick said, then tilted his head. “I just have one question.”

“Yeah?” Pete asked. “And what’s that?”

“What is _All I Want For Christmas Is You?”_ he asked. “Is that a real song?”

Pete burst into laughter, taking Patrick’s face in his hands again and kissing him through it. Patrick grinned back despite the kiss, clutching the coat in his hands and closing his eyes. 

It felt like the first day of the rest of his life. 

Patrick decided he liked what the rest of his life was looking like. 

\-----

It had been a few months since Patrick’s life got completely turned upside down and honestly, he’d never been happier. Really. So much had changed but everything was for the better, everything. He had a little studio apartment which he loved, even though living on his own was scary at first. He was used to it now, and loved it, loved it even more when it was filled with real, actual friends. 

He had a job, too. He technically didn’t need one yet, but he wanted one, badly. He wanted to be an adult, he wanted to prove his mom wrong, even though she was completely out of his life now. She cut a deal but Patrick didn’t care. He never had to see her again. 

His job brought him new friends, too, and a kind of peace. It wasn’t much, just a preschool aide, but it was amazing. He got to spend all day playing with kids and then got to see his friends and his _boyfriend_ in the evenings and on the weekends and he never, ever felt alone. 

“Happy Birthday, Patrick,” Elisa said, hugging him as he gathered up his things to leave the preschool. He and Pete had plans tonight of takeout and Netflix and cake and Patrick was so excited for it. 

Patrick grinned. 

“Thanks, Lisa,” he said. “I feel all grown up.”

“You are all grown up,” she laughed. “See you Monday.”

The train ride was busy but Patrick managed to score a seat, which he considered Chicago's birthday present to himself. Riding trains and buses was second nature to Patrick now, and he got home in no time. 

Pete was already there, Patrick could tell based on the smell of Patrick's favorite Chinese place and the bad singing from the kitchen. Patrick kicked off his shoes and hung up the coat he stole from Pete before sneaking up behind Pete and wrapping his arms around him.

“Hi, babysitter,” Pete said, and Patrick hid his grin in Pete's shoulder.

“Hi, popcorn boy,” he said back, and Pete turned to kiss him gently. “What did you get me?”

“Only the best for the birthday boy,” Pete said, gesturing at the takeout containers on the counter. “Sweet and sour chicken and chow mein.”

“You're a prince,” Patrick said, and Pete kissed him again. “Did you pick something on Netflix or can I?”

“Tangled,” Pete deadpanned, and Patrick snorted.

“That joke stopped being funny,” he lied. Pete stuck his tongue out at Patrick. “Feed me.”

“Yes, dear,” Pete said.

They ended up watching a vaguely scary thriller, which was fine by Patrick since it wound up with them curled up together in the corner of the couch, Pete tracing patterns absently on Patrick's hip. Patrick could stay like this forever, really, except for how the movie was kind of getting boring and Patrick could think of better things to do. 

“Is that how it is?” Pete breathed as Patrick squirmed around to straddle Pete's lap. 

Patrick thought his kissing had improved probably. He had lots of practice now, after all, knew what Pete liked and how to tell that Pete was into it. Making Pete crazy was one of his favorite things to do. 

Pete's hands were resting on his sides under his shirt, thumbs pressed firmly against his hip bones. Patrick squirmed until he felt Pete, hard against Patrick's thigh, and grinned against Pete's mouth. 

“I know what I want for my birthday,” he gasped, breaking away for a moment. 

“Yeah?” Pete asked, biting lightly at Patrick's neck. Patrick gasped again and squirmed. “What's that?”

“You,” Patrick whined, and Pete shuddered. 

“Are you sure?” he asked, pulling away to look Patrick in the eyes, cupping his face with one hand. Patrick bit his lip and nodded, kissing Pete back gently. 

“Want you,” he whispered, and Pete kissed him again. “Please.”

“I don't have any stuff,” Pete said, almost regretfully. Patrick flushed hard. 

“I do,” he managed to say without squeaking, thinking about how embarrassing that purchase was. Worth it, though. 

“You do?” Pete asked, eyebrow raised in surprise, and Patrick nodded. “Well. Okay then. Promise you'll say stop if you change your mind.”

“Promise,” Patrick said, and took Pete's hand and let him lead him to his bed in the corner. Hs heart was racing almost painfully in his chest and he knew he was breathing funny and he was nervous but--he did want this. He wasn’t just saying that. He wanted it _so bad._

Pete kissed him and just like that, Patrick was distracted from everything. Pete was such a good distraction, his hands everywhere, his mouth addicting. It was all Patrick could focus on, and his brain almost short circuited when Pete yanked off his shirt. 

Patrick had seen Pete shirtless--Pete didn’t exactly consider himself modest and also, never slept in one--but never like this. Never in this kind of context, never with heat in Patrick’s gaze, sweeping across Pete’s chest like a second pair of hands. 

Pete was smirking as Patrick met his eyes. 

“Go ahead,” Pete said, because he could read Patrick’s mind, and Patrick reached out hesitantly, tracing along Pete’s tattoos with slightly shaky hands. His nipples were pierced, which Patrick probably shouldn’t find as hot as he did, and suddenly, Patrick thought he would die if Pete didn’t touch him _right then._

With far more boldness than Patrick ever expected himself to have, he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to Pete’s ink, seeing if he could taste it through tanned skin. Pete tilted his head back, cupping the back of Patrick’s head and groaning in encouragement. That made Patrick a little bolder, even though he was kind of fumbling, hoping he was doing it right. He passed his mouth across a piercing, the metal cold on his tongue, and Pete gasped, hand tightening in Patrick’s hair. 

Patrick decided he liked that.

Pete pulled him back up and kissed him, making Patrick melt into his grip. He let Pete pull of his own shirt, whimpering when Pete sucked biting kisses across his collarbone. He was very, very aware that he was hard, hard and ready for Pete to touch him more, more, _more._ He whined, huffing when Pete laughed against Patrick’s skin, until Pete took ahold of the front of Patrick’s jeans and Patrick gasped. 

“Okay?” Pete asked, and Patrick nodded quickly. Pete kissed him again, gentle, and popped the button open, sliding his hand into Patrick’s briefs to cup him. Patrick was positive his cheeks were bright red as he helplessly pushed into Pete’s hand, aching for more. “Look at you.”

Patrick whined a little, burying his burning face into Pete’s shoulder and gasping as Pete stroked him lightly, teasingly. He let Pete push his pants all the way off, watching Pete take his own off with wide eyes and a dry mouth. 

Pete might not subscribe to modesty, but Patrick had never seen _him_ before. Him naked, his--his cock hard, and Patrick knew immediately that he wanted it. He definitely, definitely wanted it, in all the ways he read about and watched online through his hands with red hot cheeks. He wanted all that and he wanted Pete to give it to him. 

“You okay?” Pete asked, but it wasn’t worried. It was like he knew exactly what Patrick was thinking, what Patrick was wanting. Patrick swallowed and nodded, reaching out to drag his fingers across Pete’s--God, he really needed to just _say it_ , he sounded stupid even in his head. Pete’s cock. His hard, flushed cock, wet on the end, and Patrick shuddered as his fingertips gathered the wetness. 

He was sure he was so red he was borderline terrifying to look at, but he wanted so bad that he couldn’t help it, so he pressed his fingers to his mouth, gathering enough courage to taste. It didn’t taste bad, just salty and a little bitter, and as soon as Patrick tasted it, Pete groaned like he couldn’t handle it, grabbing Patrick hips and kissing him hungrily, like he was trying to find his own taste on Patrick’s tongue.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he moaned, and Patrick let him urge him onto his back on the bed. Blushing was pretty much Patrick’s permanent state of being at the moment but he couldn’t help it. He did try and swallow past it, letting his legs fall open a little as Pete looked at him like he didn’t know what part of Patrick to touch first. 

Pete settled for kissing Patrick again, running his hands down Patrick’s sides, chasing goosebumps--letting Patrick get used to being touched, Patrick realized. Patrick squirmed a little, gasping when his own cock brushed Pete’s, and Pete grinned, kissing him again. Pete thumbed across Patrick’s nipples a couple times, encouraging them to stiffen, sensitive under the heated touches. 

Patrick moaned into Pete’s mouth, very, very aware that he very much liked that, that he would he very, very happy with hours more of just that. Pete seemed to get the message, ducking down to mouth at one, making Patrick arch and whine without meaning to. Patrick felt teeth and cried out, burying his hands in Pete’s hair. Any and all embarrassment was absolutely gone, whole focus narrowed down to Pete and Pete’s cock and Pete’s mouth. 

Pete had evidently used the time Patrick was distracted to find the stuff Patrick had bought, still in a bag by the bed, because he pressed one cold, wet finger to Patrick and Patrick whimpered and tensed. 

“Yes or no?” Pete asked gently, breath hot against Patrick’s chest. Patrick swallowed past a suffocating feeling and nodded. 

“Yes,” he said, because he wanted Pete to hear it, and Pete kissed him softly. 

“Relax,” he breathed, before ducking down and sealing his mouth around Patrick’s puffy nipple. Patrick moaned and Pete slid one finger in, biting a little as he did, clearly trying to distract Patrick a little. It mostly worked, Patrick brain battling for control of his focus, bouncing between Pete’s mouth and his finger working its way into Patrick. 

It felt...weird, cold and intrusive, but not painful, so Patrick tried to relax. Pete obviously felt it and moved to Patrick’s other nipple as a reward. After what felt like an eternity of that awkward feeling, Pete seemed to decide something, pulling the one finger out almost completely before pushing back in, this time with two. 

Patrick moaned through the intense stretch. It felt impossibly tight, like nothing else could possibly fit in him, and he gasped as Pete moved his bites up Patrick’s chest to his neck, teasing and encouraging shivers and moans as he started moving his fingers a little, like he was searching for something. It felt weird--Patrick was still overwhelmed by the pressure, but not enough that it blocked out how funny Pete’s fingers felt, pushing and curling and--

Patrick almost screamed out, arching his back and almost writhing out from under Pete. Pete groaned at Patrick’s response and pressed up again, making that same wave of intense, overwhelming, unbelievable heat crash across Patrick’s body. Patrick was vaguely aware that he was whining, groaning, making half-formed pleas as Pete continued, but he couldn’t help it, the only thing he could think was more, more, _more._

“Good?” Pete asked, completely unnecessarily, and all Patrick could do was gasp and pant breathless moans. “God, you’re so hot. Can you take another?”

Patrick moaned and nodded and Pete pushed in another finger. Patrick cried out, working his hips back, begging for that feeling again, and almost immediately, Pete gave it to him. Patrick felt hot all over, burned where Pete touched him, and abruptly wanted Pete. All of Pete. Right then. 

“Please,” he gasped, and Pete shuddered. 

“Are you sure?” he asked again, sounding wrecked. “You can come like this, you don’t have to--”

 _“Please,”_ Patrick begged, and Pete swore under his breath, working his fingers out carefully and reaching for a condom, rolling it on quickly before wetting himself with more of the lube. He positioned himself and met Patrick’s eyes. Patrick bit his lip and nodded, taking a deep breath as he felt Pete start to press in, thick and hard and so, so different than Pete’s fingers. 

Patrick gritted his teeth. The stretch was different and it hurt a little this time. Not enough for Patrick to want to stop, but Pete was bigger than his fingers by far. By the time he was pressed all the way in, though, body tense and panting, Patrick had adjusted. He wanted to reach down and feel Pete where he was all the way in, but he didn’t know if that was weird, so he twisted one hand in the sheets and dug the nails of his other into Pete’s shoulder. 

Pete shuddered and thrust once, hitting that spot dead on, and Patrick choked on a scream. Pete took that as the go-ahead it was and pushed forward, again and again, until Patrick’s brain was full of static and all he could focus on was how Pete felt, the electricity sparking up and down Patrick’s skin every time Pete’s cock hit him just right. Patrick was so hard it hurt and he gasped as Pete wrapped a hand around him and began stroking him in time with his thrusts, getting harder and more erratic as they both got close. 

“Pete,” Patrick choked out and that was apparently all Pete could take because he thrust hard once and shuddered, stilling and coming. Patrick flushed a little, wishing Pete wasn’t wearing a condom, wishing he could _feel--_

Pete gasped for breath, pulling out carefully before ducking down and biting Patrick’s nipple. Patrick cried out and came, hot and messy across Pete’s abs, and Pete pressed kisses across Patrick’s sweaty forehead as Patrick came back down, panting and struggling to refocus. 

“You okay?” Pete asked worriedly, and Patrick grinned helplessly, shifting and shivering at the sore feeling between his legs, the reminder--they did that. Pete was there, just like Patrick had been wanting. 

“Yeah,” Patrick said, and Pete kissed him. “Yeah, really good. You’re really good.”

“You’re unreal,” Pete said, and kissed him again, cupping his face. “I love you.”

Patrick beamed before he could help himself, straining up to chase Pete’s mouth. 

“I love you,” he breathed, and sighed happily into Pete’s returned kiss, eyes fluttering shut. 

It had taken eighteen years and some change, but finally, _finally_ , Patrick was home. 

\----

**Author's Note:**

> i exist in eternal suffering at smalltalktorture.tumblr.com
> 
> i subside solely on a diet of comments, so please feed me.
> 
> thank you for reading.


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